


I Wish I May, I Wish I Might

by fortinbrassiere



Category: Les Miserables, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist! Grantaire, Enjolras runs an independent newspaper, M/M, Pre-Slash, This is self indulgent fluff, inaccurate portrayals of art and art history by someone who knows nothing of either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortinbrassiere/pseuds/fortinbrassiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Parisian sky was dark as a bruise in bloom, clouds swollen and darkened with the promise of coming rain. Enjolras regarded it with curious eyes, face upturned to watch as they unfurled, ready at any moment to bombard the city with autumnal showers. He shoved his hands unceremoniously into the pockets of his jackets, having mindlessly forgotten both his gloves and an umbrella when he had gone racing out of the apartment that morning. </p><p>The first drop to fall hit his head, fat and round, a vague irritant that dampened a spot of his shining hair. The next landed on his shoulder, then his nose; by the time he reached Grantaire’s studio he was soaked, curls plastered to his face and sodden down by the weight of rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I May, I Wish I Might

**Author's Note:**

> My friend gave me the prompt "We look up at the same stars, and see such different things", and this is what I did with it. The title comes from that old nursery rhyme "Star Light, Star Bright". Enjoy!

The Parisian sky was dark as a bruise in bloom, clouds swollen and darkened with the promise of coming rain. Enjolras regarded it with curious eyes, face upturned to watch as they unfurled, ready at any moment to bombard the city with autumnal showers. He shoved his hands unceremoniously into the pockets of his jackets, having mindlessly forgotten both his gloves and an umbrella when he had gone racing out of the apartment that morning.

The first drop to fall hit his head, fat and round, a vague irritant that dampened a spot of his shining hair. The next landed on his shoulder, then his nose; by the time he reached Grantaire’s studio he was soaked, curls plastered to his face and sodden down by the weight of rain.

He announced his arrival with three firm knocks, and the door swung open. Grantaire took one look at him, wet as though he’d been dragged through a monsoon and said, “Jesus Christ, does Combeferre wipe your ass, too?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said flatly, eyes narrowing. “If I ask nicely, he’ll even chew my food for me.”

In an unexpected turn of events, Grantaire wrinkled his face in disgust at that, leaning aside to let Enjolras in. “I don’t want to know what kind of weird shit you and Combeferre get up to, actually. Take your jacket off and let it dry.”

Enjolras complied with a roll of his eyes, hurrying to shrug the wet garment off. Grantaire helped him slide it off of his shoulders, and Enjolras struggled to suppress the involuntary shiver that was trying to ripple through his body at the close proximity.

As Grantaire left to hang the jacket by a heater, Enjolras edged further into the studio, curious eyes flickering around. Very few people were allowed to cross the threshold of Grantaire’s sanctuary. Feuilly and Eponine practically lived at the place, and Jehan had been known to wander in on occasion, but Grantaire guarded the gateway to his studio with a ferocity that only ever appeared when he was shredding arguments or aiding his friends. He did it with a deceptive smile and one shoulder leaned against the doorframe, politely turning people away with platitudes of, “Later, later.”

Casting his eyes around the studio, tidier than he expected (Feuilly’s cluttered studio was atrocious), Enjolras figured that only the raging storm and threat of catching a chill had propelled him into the studio. He ran a hand through his wet hair and began to wander around the room.

Grantaire had talent. Enjolras had always known this; they had met at a gallery opening, Grantaire’s style bold and eye catching, part of a multi-artist collaborative collection of political satire. Enjolras had been drawn in on suggestion of a friend, and had attended the event in the hopes of gaining new contacts, maybe getting a statement or two in for the bi-monthly publication he ran. He gained the contact information of a pretty, blonde photographer whose stunning photographs revealed a great sense of irony, and got a statement (as well as a proposition) from an American expatriate with perfect, blindingly white teeth,  his multi-media sculptures a harsh critique of the war in the Middle East.

But the part of the exhibit that had really drawn his eye had been the Delacroix imitations, three of them placed neatly on one of the back walls, the colors bright and bold enough to be demanding, the smooth, mobile brush strokes carrying enough of the Romantic movement to still slip, effortlessly, into the traditional styles of the time. A fleeing refugee, young and alert, cast a frightened glance over her shoulder, casting her eyes over the wreckage of her homeland in a tribute to _Orphan Girl at the Cemetery_. In an homage to _The Massacre at Chios_ stood the poor and abased of Paris; with no roof overhead and no food for their mouths, they fell victim to starvation, disease, violence.

Nestled between the two was _Liberty Leading the People_ , a modern sex worker brandishing a picket sign, sagging breasts exposed but not sexualized, a mass of trafficking victims and unhappy members of the sex industry trailing after her. Enjolras had pored over it in awe, amazed to see the small bit of art history that he actually appreciated brought to life again, swathed for the modern century in vibrant, threatening colors and vicious political commentary. He had spent the entire night tracking the artist down (an act which had required flirting, minor bribery, and quite a few blatant lies), and the person he had found was… Grantaire.

Cynical Grantaire, the recovering alcoholic who was plagued by the state of the world enough to paint it, yet defeatist and apathetic enough to shrug off his own responsibility in the matter. Grantaire who, upon attending one of their publication meetings, had charmed his way into their group immediately, beginning the night with a sly grin and ending it with half the room twisting with laughter, wine shooting out of Bossuet’s nostrils as he laughed so hard. Grantaire who was always ready with a self deprecating word, yet always jumped to defense for his friends, if not for their causes. Grantaire who, being the only one with a printer that could withstand the load, was willing to spend his weekends mass producing pamphlets and publications when Les Amis’ newspaper printer broke down.

Ignoring the muffled banging that came from the back room, Enjolras wandered the studio. He’d been invited in, he might as well drink his fill. It was neater than he’d expected; the apartment Grantaire shared with Bahorel often looked like a bomb went off, both parties complaining that they were never home often enough to clean it and blaming the other. The studio was much neater. Grantaire dabbled in many mediums, and each seemed to have their own nooks and crannies, places where different supplies were nestled away. Currently, his easel was home to a large canvas, it’s front facing away from the door. Enjolras refrained from looking, instead casting his eyes at the wall of completed projects.

Four tall mosaics were lined side by side, each coming nearly to Enjolras’ elbow. With borders and backgrounds fashioned from shards of broken bottles, pieces of smashed up plastic, bits of paper, Alphonse Mucha’s _Four Seasons_ stared sadly out at Enjolras, their bright colors and beautiful scenes blurred and dirtied with pollution, litter, the effects of climate change. Near them sat a series of carvings, little men and women fashioned from wood, intricately carved and meticulously painted, most likely a commission from one of the many organizations Grantaire worked with. Here and there, Enjolras caught brief glimpses of familiar faces, Jehan’s smooth hair brushing over pronounced cheekbones and sturdy shoulders, Bahorel’s mouth caught in a gaping laugh, Eponine swaddled in a red cloak and baring sharp teeth, the embodiment of both _Le Petit Chaperon rouge_ as well as her snarling assailant.

The majority of pieces were canvases bearing paint, charcoals, scraps of recycled materials, but there were a few statues mingled amongst them, a few installation pieces carelessly tossed about. Enjolras surveyed them all, hand itching to reach out and touch, to gingerly set them upright. Clamping his arm to his side to resist temptation, he slowly raked his eyes over the completed projects, the products of time and talent expended by Grantaire.

Rather than being lined on the wall, the most breathtaking of the pieces was suspended overhead, and Enjolras tipped his head back to view it, mouth slipping open in awe. From the ceiling hung a net of blue, tightly corded and deep as the night sky. A few veins of paler blues threaded through the piece, some royal blues to add depth, but the majority were a deep, dark blue, practically black. Glittering crystals had been scattered about, stars in the night sky, meticulously organized into clusters, constellations. Enjolras took a step back, attempting to crane his neck back far enough to take it all in.

“You could lay down, if you want,” Grantaire said from where he leaned against the door he had initially disappeared through, smirking at Enjolras. Caught in the act, Enjolras flushed, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Grantaire set down the bag full of pamphlets that he had been carrying and strolled to Enjolras. “It looks better if you’re laying down,” he said.

Enjolras hummed, slowly walking a circle around the floor, examining the edges. It really was huge, and he imagined stretching down across the floor, carpeting the paint splattered floor of Grantaire’s studio in the night sky.

Slowly, he made his way back to the center, carefully laying himself down on the studio floor, head placed near a gash of dried purple paint that split a wound into the concrete. Carefully adhered to the ceiling, tight enough to block out any glimpses of the white paint, the stars stared down back at him, beautiful and peaceful. He wondered if this was what it was like, to recline back and gaze at the dark of the night without the interference of light pollution. He had lived in a city too long, he supposed.

There was a shift in the movement to his left, and then Grantaire was seated next to him, leaning back on his arms and staring up thoughtfully. He looked better than he had just a  year ago, the gaunt lines of his face having filled out a bit, skin flushing with life instead of the bearing the unhealthy pallor of a recovering addict. He arrived late to meetings, still, and sometimes he never appeared at all; sometimes Bossuet and Joly would be uncharacteristically gentle with him, sometimes Bahorel had to physically pull him out of bed, but Enjolras had heard the strength returning to his laughs, had noticed the recession of self deprecating comments. The good days outnumbered the bad.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras said at length.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the smirk that flickered across Grantaire’s face as he said, “It doesn’t really compare to the real thing, you know.”

“It’s still amazing,” Enjolras persisted. “This must have taken forever.”

There was a shuffling at his side, and then Grantaire was laying down beside him, a polite distance stretching out between the two. “It did. It took most of last summer.”

Not long after Enjolras had tracked the artist down and at least a few months after Grantaire had started attending their publication meetings regularly, Joly had been twirling his fingers around the rim of his cup (filled only with juice, alcohol consumption having been cut back with Grantaire’s appearance) and curiously asking Grantaire what he was  working on. Grantaire had waggled his eyebrows at Enjolras and said, “A series about celestial bodies,” with an outrageous wink that had forced Enjolras away, stomping over to Combeferre, and had sent Joly and Bossuet in to howls of laughter.

“Wow,” Enjolras said in response, staring upward.

Grantaire attempted to shrug his shoulders, an action made difficult from the way he was laying. “It was fun. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just… pretty.”

Staring up at the net, Enjolras rolled that around in his head. So much of Grantaire’s work was political; he specialized in statement pieces, purgations of the distress he felt at the state of the world. Grantaire may not have been an activist like Enjolras was, but he touched the world in the only way he felt he could, molding it gently in clay or painting it boldly across a canvas.

This was different. Looming above him, twinkling in the pale light, Grantaire’s true talents swooped across the ceiling. The net of stars was pure creation, something designed to please rather than titillate, the kind of art that Grantaire could focus on if they lived in a perfect world.

“I guess the world needs pretty sometimes,” Enjolras mused aloud. When he turned and saw Grantaire’s shocked expression, he asked, “What?”

“I didn’t think you could breathe without some kind of political motivation, and now you’re enjoying art?” With a roll of his eyes, Grantaire ran a hand through his inky curls. “You’re not dying, are you?”

With a roll of his own eyes, Enjolras jabbed Grantaire in the side with his elbow, falling into the tentative, playful routine that has been slowly emerging between the two of them as the first, tense months of acquaintanceship slipped behind them. The action shifted him closer, bridging some of the seemingly huge expansive of concrete that stretched between them. Enjolras could feel the heat that emanated from Grantaire’s arm, a welcome warmth against his bare skin, still cold from the rain. “Yes. Stage four stomach cancer. This time next week, I might even dance.”

Grantaire’s laugh bubbled out of him, and Enjolras watched it in the rise and fall of his chest. “Please don’t. You’re the worst dancer I know.”

Offended, Enjolras jabbed him in the elbow again. Bahorel, who favored “interpretative” style dancing that often ended with at least a few black eyes, was far worse than he was, and Combeferre, who couldn’t even move his shoulders without having a few drinks in him, was definitely worse. “Shut up,” Enjolras commanded, but the words were too soft to carry any real venom, and his mouth was curling up into a smile. “What’s that one called?” He asked, pointing up to a small cluster of stars overhead, the blinking crystals of this constellation far more concentrated than that of the others.

“Cassiopeia.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I thought that it was urgent that you got those as soon as possible,” Grantaire said, gesturing vaguely to the sack of abandoned pamphlets he had left in the middle of the floor. With a wicked grin, he asked, “And won’t Combeferre be worried if you’re out past bedtime?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know what kind of weird shit Combeferre and I get up to?”

Grantaire shivered. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, smile widening to show his teeth, “Now tell me about Cassiopeia.”

He did. With his finger as guide, Grantaire traced the constellations overhead, spinning ancient stories of warriors and lovers, monsters and gods, shifting smoothly from one to the other with the eloquent tones of a natural, if reluctant, orator.

Beneath Grantaire’s blanket of stars, despite the wet hair dripping down his neck and dampening his collar, despite the cold concrete that was sure to stiffen his back, Enjolras felt more serene than he had in weeks, content to stare up at a Parisian sky unmarred by heavy rainclouds or bright lights, happy to soak up the warmth of Grantaire at his side.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. If you ever want to talk headcanons, request fic, or just pop in and say hi, you can find me on tumblr as [enjolrose](enjolrose.tumblr.com). Feedback is always great!


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